Second Chances
by kalyzio
Summary: AU. Harvey Specter was twenty-six years old and New York State's newest Assistant DA when he learned of the existence of his half-brother: Michael James Ross.
1. Pilot

**Second Chances**

_Harvey Specter was twenty-six years old and New York State's newest Assistant DA when he learned of the existence of his half-brother: Michael James Ross._

* * *

June 23rd, 1999 was the day his life changed forever.

Harvey Specter was twenty-six years old and New York State's newest Assistant DA when he learned of the existence of his half-brother.

The social worker on the phone sounded entirely too optimistic as she brought the tenuous walls holding up his carefully crafted new life crashing down around him. "We're considering this as a short-term solution only."

"I think my taxes pay for something amazingly suitable for this situation. It might be called the foster care system," Harvey said.

"Mr. Specter," she said, almost severely, "Do you realize how difficult it is for a sixteen-year-old to find a good placement in foster care?"

"It's probably better than impossible, which, funnily enough is what his chances are with me."

"We are obligated to first seek an alternative placement. This is your half-brother."

"Legally, perhaps," he said flatly, even as his mind processed the implications of the familial relationship and immediately dismissed them. So his mother had gotten herself knocked up by one of the many men she had cheated with? He hadn't given her a second's thought for years.

"He's been living in New York with his paternal grandmother, but she's very sick, Mr. Specter. Stage III ovarian cancer."

She paused there, as if waiting his reaction.

"My condolences," he said curtly.

Somehow, amazingly, she was professional enough to not call him out as a heartless asshole. Harvey mentally gave her a few points for that.

She pressed on, "His name is Michael James Ross, and he goes by 'Mike'. He's had a rough few years in school, but he's an incredibly intelligent and engaging young man."

"They all are, I'm sure."

Her voice finally dipped into uncertainty. "Will you at least meet him?"

"No."

"Mr. Specter," she began, but Harvey had had enough.

"I don't mean to ruin this magical moment," he said brusquely, "But I have a trial this afternoon that I need to prepare for. Good day."

With that, he hung up.

:::

Donna was in his office less than ten seconds later. "One, you don't have a trial this afternoon, and two, that was fairly rude of you."

"I'm really not in the mood for a lecture."

"Bullshit," she said, not giving an inch to him, "You'll be in the mood if I say that you are."

Exasperated, Harvey set down his pen and met her beautiful, fiery gaze unflinchingly. "Okay. Say what you have to say, because I have a feeling I won't hear the end of it until you do."

She rolled her eyes at him. "I can't help it that you put on your asshole hat this morning, but," and she sank into the chair opposite him, her voice softening slightly as she continued, "Harvey, don't take it out on this kid."

"He's nobody to me."

"Doesn't mean he couldn't _be_ somebody."

"That presupposes that I actually want something to do with that kid."

And he didn't. His mother had ceased to be his mother the day that she had left them, he, Dad, and Marc, and left them only the shattered remnants of his dad's heart. She had left without a word and never picked up the phone, never answered any letters, and so Harvey hadn't shed a tear the day he had learned she had died in a car crash, her and her 'true love.'

"I know, Harvey," Donna said quietly, reaching a hand across the desk for his, "But I also know this: you're not the kind of man who could walk away from his half-brother. You're better than that."

He looked away, uncomfortable. "Look - "

"Yes, just _look._"

He glanced down at the desk, at the thin paper folder she had slid under his hand. "What's this?"

"His name is Mike Ross. That's his freshman year picture."

Nimbly he flipped open the file folder and found himself staring into discerning blue eyes, a cherubic kid whose face hadn't yet hardened with the lines of adulthood, a kid with dirty-blond locks, long eyelashes, and a wide smile. There was no question about it: this kid would get eaten _alive_ in the foster care system.

He looked so young. So innocent. So like Marcus, before he had -

Harvey felt a lump in his throat.

"Donna, you somehow again are both impressive and terrifying," he managed to say. The social worker had called him only five minutes ago. How she had managed to already have this picture in her possession - honestly, it bent the physics of possibility.

"If you were impressed by that, then try this," she said, with a slight smile, "Mike will be here tomorrow, after the disposition at 3."

"Donna - " he protested. '_Cancel it_,' was on the tip of his tongue.

She arched a perfectly shaped brow at him, and he knew right then, that he had lost. Not that we would ever admit it, of course.

:::

"How did you convince Cameron to approve bringing a high school student into the office?" Harvey said to Donna, as he smoothed his tie for what felt like the fiftieth time in the afternoon.

"You're now a part of the New York Mentoring for Success program."

Harvey pursed his lips. "Fantastic."

"Nobody in this office believes you volunteered for this," she assured him.

The two rounded the corner. Unwillingly, Harvey's breath came a bit faster as he saw a glimpse of blue jeans, red shirt, and badly scuffed sneakers inside the conference room. This was it. His heart was pounding stupidly fast with, what? Apprehension? He was above that, surely.

"Play nice," Donna cautioned, as he stepped forward and entered the room.

Mike was seated ramrod straight in the chair, looking uncomfortable and out of place. His short hair had been teased with an idiotic amount of gel, into spikes that stood up half-heartedly, and his blue eyes were dimmed and heavy with fatigue. Yet despite that, Harvey could see the flicker of intelligence there, a spark of interest as the kid appraised him.

"Harvey Specter," he said, and offered a hand to shake. A second later he regretted the perfunctory action - this wasn't a client!

To make matters worse, Mike was staring at the proffered hand like he didn't quite know what to do with it. The silence stretched on for what felt like the longest seconds of Harvey's life, to the point where he was considering pulling back his hand and pretending the moment hadn't happened, when Mike came to his feet and took the hand in a firm shake. "Mike Ross."

So, at least his grandmother had taught him proper manners. Courtesy of Donna's amazing sleuthing, Harvey had a good portion of the kid's life story. After Mike's parents (because it was somehow easier to simply think of them as if they were both strangers) had been killed in a car crash, he had been raised by his grandmother.

Harvey took a seat across the table. A moment later, Mike reseated himself and stared at him expectantly.

Yet for one of the first times in his life, Harvey Specter found himself tongue-tied. All the words that he had so carefully rehearsed were stuck in his throat because now that he was staring the kid face-to-face, the resemblance to Marc was even stronger than it had been with the picture. Harvey's heart constricted with guilt, a feeling he had worked so damn hard to bury forever.

"So you're a lawyer," Mike broke the silence.

"Guilty as charged."

"That's cool," Mike determined.

"I'm touched that you think so," Harvey said dryly. "Shouldn't you think firefighters and cops are cool?"

"I'm not _five_," the kid sounded affronted. "But yeah, lawyers are cool. I like to read. I remember everything I've ever read."

"What, you're Rain Man now?"

Mike grinned, and just like that, his entire face transformed. Suddenly there was confidence there, a cocky swagger, an assurance that he seemed almost a little too _young_ for. Harvey stared, just a little amazed to see the smile that he employed so often on someone else's face.

"You'd be surprised, Charlie," Mike informed Harvey sincerely. With his chin, he gestured toward the bookshelf in the corner of he room. "Is that the BarBri Legal Handbook? Open it up. Read me anything."

Intrigued despite himself, Harvey crossed the room, selected the book, and thumbed it open to a random page. "Civil liability associated with agency is based on several factors including - "

" - including the deviation of the agent from his path of reasonable inference of agency on behalf of the plaintiff and the nature of the damages themselves."

_The hell?_ Harvey stared at him.

A few beats later, he remembered to close his mouth. "How do you _know_ that?"

"I learned it when I was preparing for a mock trial at school."

"A mock trial at school," Harvey said skeptically, "Isn't the BarBri handbook overkill for that?"

"I like to read," Mike insisted, "And the handbook was interesting."

"I don't think I've ever heard that one before."

"Well I'm not like anyone you've ever met before," Mike's chin jutted out as he said that.

_I'm beginning to see that, kid_.

Throughout his life, Harvey had trusted and lived by his instincts. His uncanny ability to _understand_ people - what they thought, what they feared, what they could be tempted by - was one of his greatest strengths.

Now, his instincts made the decision in a second. "Okay, here's the deal, hotshot," he said, "I'll become your legal guardian, with the following stipulations. One: I'm not your mother. You clean up after your own shit."

"_Our_ mother."

Harvey grimly continued, "Two: you never refer to her as 'our' mother again. She's your mother. Three," he said, before the kid could object, "I don't care what your taste in music is, but you never play boy band music when I'm within hearing range."

"Boy bands? I'm not a twelve-year-old girl!"

He plowed on as if he hadn't heard. "Four: you don't hog the phone line, and five: you'll promise to throw away all your pot and never touch it again."

Mike raised his hand. "Can I speak now?"

He made a 'go-on' gesture with his hand.

"I don't smoke pot."

"Six," Harvey said, "you never lie to me again."

The kid stared at him, his expression a cross between aghast and stunned. To Harvey's smug satisfaction, Mike didn't seem to have any retaliatory words.

"You read books, I read people," Harvey said, with a slight smirk, "Do we have a deal?"

"You know, as a minor, I could disaffirm at any time."

Despite himself, he grinned. This kid was really something. "Then_ in loco parentis_, I'll sign for you," he said, "and I think we have a deal."

They would still have to make it official of course, but Harvey had a sneaking suspicion that even as he and Mike were talking, Donna was on the phone with the social worker, hammering out the details.

:::

Harvey spent the following Saturday getting some of his affairs in order. His one bedroom apartment, while more than adequate for his needs, was going to need some work in order to accommodate a teenager. Fortunately his furniture was limited in quantity; Harvey refused to buy cheap, knock-off items, and instead saved up for real wood, real leather. It was easy enough to shove his sofa, dining table, and four chairs to one side. In the free space, he strung up a curtain to give Mike some privacy.

He didn't have an extra bed, so the inflatable mattress would have to serve for now. Harvey sighed wistfully as he gazed around his apartment. It was fairly evident he was going to need to start looking for a new place. Damn, but he had been so proud when he had first moved in; the square footage was laughable, but he had one large window with a partial view of the city skyline.

The social worker had wanted him to accompany Mike to his grandmother's nursing home for a visit and to pick his up belongings. Harvey had refused adamantly, informing her that it would be nearly impossible for him to remain civil. Mike's grandmother, after all, was the mother of a man who had the morals to sleep with a married woman. Thankfully the social worker had seen sense and relented, promising to bring Mike by in the early evening.

Harvey sighed as he glanced around the apartment and realized just how much his life was changing. This apartment would no longer be his place to unwind after work, with a glass of scotch and the smooth sounds of classic music. No, instead there would be...game consoles and yoyos, or whatever it was that teenagers these days did in their free time.

Too late now for regrets though. Harvey resigned himself to starting dinner. His cooking repertoire was quite limited, but he had managed to fend for himself reasonably well over the years. Tonight, he was sticking to pasta with garlic, olive oil, and red pepper flakes.

At 7:30pm, Mike arrived, clutching a well-worn dark blue Nike duffel bag.

"Where's Ms. - " Harvey racked his mind for the name of the social worker, and came up empty. Thank goodness Donna wasn't here to rag him about it.

"_Sanchez_," Mike said, "and she said she was too busy to drop in. I'm pretty sure she doesn't like you."

"That's ridiculous; women love me," he said. "Come in. Dinner will be ready in about ten minutes."

He pointed out landmarks in the apartment to Mike as they walked inside. "Kitchen, bathroom, my room, your room."

Mike touched the inflatable bed curiously.

"It's that or the floor," Harvey said.

"No, it's great," the kid said quickly, "Just like camping." He set the duffel bag on the light bamboo hardwood floors, and again grazed the bed with his fingers. "Are these 1000-count sheets or something?"

"I told you the women love me," Harvey said.

Mike's face suffused with color. "Um - "

Harvey snorted. "Please tell me you can hear the word 'sex' without - never mind," he sighed, as Mike flushed even redder and began stammering some nonsensical syllables. Well, there went his personal life for the foreseeable future. That finalized it: he definitely needed a two-bedroom place.

Meanwhile Mike was busying himself with inspecting the items Harvey had laid out for him. "Is this your old Harvard hoodie? Cool!" He wiggled his way into it, and Harvey's lips twitched at the sight of the kid dwarfed in the Harvard crimson. Although Mike wasn't particularly short or tall for his age, he was gangly, all legs and limbs.

Mike inspected himself. "Does this look okay?"

"On a scale of 1 to 10, I'd say a 3," Harvey said.

"Is 10 'it looks great' or 'it looks dorky'?" Mike frowned at him.

"You don't want to know."

"Well I like it," Mike said, in his best offhanded tone that fooled nobody. Giving his old hoodie to Mike had been Donna's idea, and he was beginning to understand why she had suggested it. Despite how silly the hoodie looked on him, the kid looked ridiculously proud to be wearing it.

"Get yourself settled in," Harvey said, "and I'll finish up dinner."

"It smells good. What're you making?"

"Pasta."

"Awesome, I love Italian," Mike said, "by the way, have you ever had the pizza with the cheesy crust? Because it _blew my mind_."

Harvey didn't deign to respond.

:::

They spent the next day following Donna's itinerary. The morning started off with breakfast at one of Harvey's favorite diners, where Harvey learned that Mike hated the taste of black coffee, but absolutely adored coffee ice cream. Then they spent an hour at Target, where Mike insisted on buying some milk crates to store his clothing and other belongings.

Harvey shifted uncomfortably. "I can buy some real furniture," he said.

"I honestly prefer the milk crates," Mike said.

"I hope you're not planning to build a fort with them."

"Seriously, I'm not five."

Harvey heaved a sigh. "Milk crates are not furniture."

"Don't get skimpy on me. They're only two dollars each."

"They're something people used to _throw out_," Harvey said.

So as he stood at the cashier and paid for a dozen milk crates, a mix of black, white, and blue crates, Harvey silently wondered how exactly his life had gotten to this point.

After they had taken a taxi back to his place and dropped off their purchases, Harvey said casually, "Ready for the game?"

"What game?"

Harvey waved two tickets under the kid's nose.

Mike yelped, "YANKEES TICKETS?"

"Luxury suite. Yankees vs. Orioles."

"Holy shit! Holy shit!" A moment later, Mike bit his lip. "Oh sorry."

"You can swear in front of me," Harvey said, amused.

"Awesome!" Mike declared, reaching reverently for the tickets. "How on earth did you manage to land these? These have to be at _least_ four thousand a pop!"

"The DA's office sometimes receives gifts."

"Isn't that like bribery?"

"_Gifts_ of appreciation. But if you really want to keep pulling at that string, these tickets might go _poof_."

"My lips are sealed," Mike said solemnly, "Let's go, Yankees!"

:::

The game was better than he could have hoped for. Harvey bought a navy blue Yankees cap and pulled it over Mike's head, even as the kid almost fell over with professions of gratitude. They woofed down hotdogs and chili-cheese fries, and relished the sweet night air, and the sounds of the thunderous stadium over the tunes of _'Take Me Out to the Ball Game'_.

After the game was over (the Yankees won), Harvey and Mike made their way to the taxi stand Mike's eyes were shining with exuberance, and he was practically dancing as he kept rehashing the highlights of the game to Harvey.

"Did you see when Jeter hit that homerun? He just pulled back and _blam!_"

"Yes, Mike, I was there. Sitting next to you as you stole my fries. Remember?"

None of that deterred Mike though, and he was a chatterbox the entire ride home as Harvey learned more than he had ever cared to know about Chicago pizzas, cheese on a stick, Super Smash Brothers, and oddly enough, the history of grog in the British Navy. The kid was a friggin' walking Brittanica.

:::

That night, Harvey woke up at 3am to the sound of whimpering. He was fully alert in a flash, heart pounding as he threw on a T-shirt and rushed into the living room. "Mike?"

The kid was tossing and turning fitfully, knuckles white on the white duvet that was twisted around his legs. "No," he cried out, "No, please don't." His brow was slicked with sweat.

"Mike, _Mike_, wake up," Harvey perched on the edge of the inflatable and put a hand on Mike's shoulder. Mike flinched away from the touch, and then his eyes popped open.

"Grammy?" he choked out, blue eyes wide with anxiety as he blinked a few times and tried to orient himself. "Grammy!"

Harvey drew back his hand, unsure how to respond.

A moment later, he saw the clarity come back to Mike's face, as he suddenly looked very, very embarrassed. "Harvey," he stammered, "I didn't - I hope I didn't wake you..."

"Don't worry about it," Harvey said quickly. "It was just a nightmare, Mike. It's okay. You're okay."

"Yeah," Mike gulped a bit, tried to affect some teenage bravado. But he clearly wasn't okay. The lawyer hesitated, torn between his desire to avoid all awkward situations and a sudden surge of protectiveness.

"Why don't you tell me about it," he said finally.

"No, I don't - " Mike cast about with his eyes, as if searching for an escape. "I don't want to."

Gently, Harvey tapped him on the nose. "Yes, you do. I read people for a living, remember? Now tell me."

"No, I don't, I don't - " Mike protested feebly, and then suddenly burst out, "She's going to die, isn't she?"

The quivering voice hit Harvey like a sledgehammer. He sat down, hard, at a complete loss for words. This was dangerous, unfamiliar territory; he was a smooth talker, a charmer. Sympathy was far from his specialty. His whole life was a testament to that fact. After his mother had left, despite his best efforts he had been unable to cajole either his Dad or Marc, and as a result, his family had fallen apart under his watch.

"She's receiving good care," he said.

"She's all I have," Mike said raggedly. "And they wouldn't have given me to you if...if..."

If there was any hope that his grandmother would make it. Something constricted inside his chest at the utter despair in Mike's voice.

Because he had heard that very same despair, in a different voice, in what felt like a lifetime ago. _I'm going to die, aren't I, Harv?_

He had been powerless then, but he saw the words he could say now, and he took them.

"Hey, hey now," he said softly, "Do you know what Ms. Sanchez said when she first told me about you? That this would be a short-term solution. Grammy needs full time care now, but once she pulls through, she'll be there for you again."

Mike's blue eyes turned to him, desperate, desperate to cling at any lifeline Harvey was willing to throw him. Even if it were a lie. "Ms. Sanchez really said that?"

"Yes," Harvey said.

Sick at heart, hating himself.

But it worked. Slowly, the tension eased from Mike's shoulders and the trembles ceased. "Thanks, Harvey," he croaked, roughly dragging an arm across his face.

"Anytime, hotshot. Now try to go back to sleep," he said gently.

Mike nodded wearily.

Remembering something of how Marc had been after a nightmare, Harvey stayed seated next to him until Mike's breathing deepened and came slow and steady. Even then, he remained seated in the darkness, a silhouetted statue in the moonlight, his heart heavy with guilt.

Because the social worker hadn't called it a short-term solution because she thought his grandmother would survive. It was a short-term solution because this arrangement only needed to last until Mike was eighteen, and a legal adult.

:::

The next morning, it was as if nothing had happened. Mike hungrily spooned up every last Cheerio and said, "cool," when Harvey announced his intention to bring Mike into the DA's office with him.

* * *

**Up Next: **Harvey and Mike's relationship is sorely tested when Mike breaks his promise.

**And looking forward:** So I never thought I'd actually write one of these Mike de-aged fics, but...this bunny just wouldn't let go. I'm not entirely sure yet where to carry this story, but I have a rough idea in my head to loosely mirror the events of canon, while delving a bit into the darker aspects of Mike and Harvey's pasts. Any interest in continuing? As always, I'd love to hear what you think.


	2. Errors and Omissions

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much for the kind comments and support for Chapter 1. Sorry it's been awhile since the last update; job obligations have a pesky way of getting in the way sometimes. Here's another long chapter to hopefully make up for the wait. Disclaimer: I stole bits of dialogue from Suits 1.02.

* * *

**{Chapter 2}**

He didn't want to admit it, but damnit, he actually _liked_ Harvey.

It definitely hadn't started out that way. As a kid, Mike had always thought it was sort of cool that he had two 'long lost' brothers somewhere else in the world...but that was exactly where they had been: somewhere _else_ in the world.

That was, until he had learned of Grammy's diagnosis. Then, abruptly, _Harvey Specter_ had become a name he couldn't seem to escape from. "But I don't _want_ to live with him!" Mike had argued vehemently, "I want to stay with you! I'll take good care of you, _I promise._" But Grammy had been insistent - _please, Michael, I know you're unhappy with this situation, but you must make the best of it - _and so he had sucked it up and put on his game face.

The first time he had gone into the DA's office to meet Harvey, he had gone in with a secret agenda. Part of his mind had looking for something to get him out of the situation, even as the other part of his mind had been grudgingly blown away by how _awesome_ Harvey was. He was living the dream! Harvard-graduate, star prosecutor. He was everything Mike had wanted to be since he was ten years old, everything he had always wanted in an older brother. Despite himself, despite the plan, he had found himself showing off a bit, trying to impress Harvey.

Their first day together had been so awesomely perfect that Mike was sure he dreamed it. The only time a sliver of doubt had entered his mind had been when they had returned from their shopping trip to Target, arms laden with new purchases, and Mike had suddenly realized, _oh shit, maybe I shouldn't have spent so much of his money._

Then Harvey had magically conjured up Yankees tickets, and the thought had been gone almost as quickly as it had come.

The doubts were back now though, and they had invited company.

As he ate his Cheerios, Mike tried to discreetly study his new 'guardian' (because 'brother', even 'half-brother', was really way too much of a stretch at this point; he could just imagine the look of horror on Harvey's face).

What was the catch? Why was Harvey putting up with what had to be a huge upheaval in his perfect life? For a crazy moment, Mike had the mental image of Grammy somehow having blackmail material on the man. She had always been one heckuva resourceful woman.

"My tie can't be crooked," Harvey said.

Mike's spoon stopped halfway to his mouth. "Huh?"

"You're looking for something." Harvey set down his Blackberry and raised an eyebrow, the question '_so_ _what is it?_' implicit.

He thought fast. "Is it weird wearing a suit all the time?"

"Is it weird always wearing pants that are hanging off your ass?" came the quick rejoinder.

"Hey this is _style_."

"Uh-huh," Harvey didn't sound convinced, but he returned to his Blackberry.

Diversion: successful.

:::

Mike met a whirlwind of people that morning.

First there was Cameron Dennis, the District Attorney, Harvey's boss. "Whoa there," he declared, his tone genial as he came forward and thumped Mike on the back, "Who's the junior, Harvey?"

"My Mentoring for Success project."

Mr. Dennis pursed his lips. "Well, if program participation helps win votes..." he said, and then laughed. "Just messing with you, kid. Welcome to the office. Don't let Harvey be too much of an ass; he's damn good at it."

"Yes, sir," Mike agreed. He liked the man, with his confident smile and bushy mustache.

Harvey rolled his eyes. "Let's go."

"I'd vote for him," he told Harvey as they were walking away.

"If that's all it takes to convince you, then it dismays me to think that people like you will be able to legally vote in two years," Harvey said.

Then there was Big Bertha. Mike also liked her immediately, with her no-nonsense demeanor and her ability to cut right through Harvey's charm.

"I'm telling you, she adores me," Harvey assured him.

Mike chanced a glance backwards. "She's shaking her head."

"Obviously at something completely unrelated," Harvey scoffed, but Mike didn't missed the wink he threw back over his shoulder.

Nor did either of them miss the pen that suddenly bounced off the back of Harvey's head.

And then finally, there was Donna.

Donna, a category all of her own, as she so cheerfully informed him.

"Ms. Sanchez mentioned that I had you to thank for arranging the meeting with Harvey, Ms. Paulsen," Mike said, shaking her hand politely.

"_Donna_," she corrected him, pulling a face, "It's all the title I need."

"I'll remember that, Donna," Mike said, "Are you Harvey's..." he bit off the sentence, maybe a bit late. 'Secretary' sounded a bit old-fashioned, a bit sexist, and even though he had only known her for two seconds, he was pretty darn sure this was someone whose bad side he wanted to avoid as much as humanly possible.

"Everything," Donna said.

Mike blinked, taken aback. That wasn't a thing.

"Everything?" Harvey said quietly, a peculiar note in his voice. Still confused, Mike tilted his head to look at him, and was surprised to see a crooked, languid smile on Harvey's face.

It was right about then that Mike began to get a seriously uncomfortable inkling that he had somehow wandered somewhere he really shouldn't be. "Um - uh, the bathroom," he said, his ears flushing red hot as he quickly ducked his head and ran.

From somewhere behind him, he thought he heard Donna's soft peals of laughter. "Oh he's _cute_, Harvey..."

:::

The day spent at the DA's office was one of the most mentally challenging days Mike had ever experienced, and he loved every second of it. This was _real_ work they were doing, real bad guys that they were putting away, and Mike was almost dizzy with exhilaration. Even better, it was something he was _good _at, and he made damn sure that Harvey knew it, too.

They pitched ideas back and forth, referencing precedent and vague bylaws of bylaws. Mike proved more than once that once had read something, he remembered it - even if were a footnote on page 847 of a _three_-_thousand_ page document. Those moments made him proud because he was being _useful_ somehow, he wasn't just some nuisance that Harvey had been coerced into accepting.

"Come on," he ribbed Harvey, "is that the best a Harvard-trained attorney can do? _Budd vs. New York._"

"Irrelevant."

"That's what one might have thought of the Interstate Commerce Clause and violence against women, but Rehnquist sure proved that one wrong. Just run with it, okay? _Budd vs. New York._"

"Property rights." There was a healthy note of skepticism in Harvey's voice.

"If a man devotes his honestly acquired land to a public use, he gives to the public a right to control that use. The court upheld _Munn vs. Illinois_."

He ended the sentence with a triumphant smile, only to be met with a bemused stare.

Mike bounced on his heels as he waited for the light bulb over Harvey's head to light up.

"Keep drawing the line connecting that decision with solicitation," Harvey said.

"The point is it was _public land _where the solicitation took place!"

"Oh, now I see what you're saying. It had to be Professor Plum in the library with the candlestick," Harvey said dryly.

"Hey, you watched _A Few Good Men_," Mike said, and artificially deepened his voice to his best Colonel Jessep impression, "You can't handle the truth!"

"It's not convincing when your voice cracks halfway," Harvey said.

And so it went, on and on.

As they ate their takeout dinner over the file folders, greasy, delicious American Chinese food, Mike chanced to ask, "So have you ever lost a case?"

"Nope." Harvey plucked a piece of orange chicken with his chopsticks and popped it in his mouth.

"You're kidding."

"Live by the Golden Rule, and you're set."

"Treat others as you'd like to be treated?"

"Not that kindergarten bullshit," Harvey scoffed, "Don't go to court unless you can win."

Mike shook his head in disbelief. "You can't possibly win every time. What if all the evidence points against your client?"

Harvey leaned back in his chair, propped his dress shoes up on the desk, and said, "Do you play poker?"

"Some Texas Hold Em', yeah," Mike said, rescuing the broccoli beef from Harvey's feet.

"You win a lot?"

"'course."

"By counting cards."

Mike opened his mouth to protest, but then he noticed the knowing glint in Harvey's eyes. Right. The whole 'read people' thing. His shoulders slumped. "Yeah, maybe."

"Well then, what happens when the math's telling you that you don't have the right cards?"

"Then you're hosed," Mike said.

"No, losing isn't an option," Harvey shook his head, "So you bluff."

Could it be as easy as that? Mike was speechless; Harvey sounded so _confident..._

And then it hit him, a horrible, awful, gut wrenching thought: how much was Harvey bluffing with _him_?

Because Harvey had been nothing but kind to him, and that completely didn't jive with what he had overheard. Even now, he could replay the words in his mind, as crystal clear as the day he had huddled outside of Grammy's hospital room and pressed his ear to the door and heard Ms. Sanchez tell Grammy, _"Harvey isn't relenting. He doesn't want the kid."_

They were words he could never forget.

What game was Harvey really playing? Mike stared into those unfathomable dark eyes and found no answer.

:::

He accompanied Harvey to the DA's office again the following day, but it was immediately very clear that Something Big had happened overnight. Mr. Dennis called for Harvey's attention, and as Mike threw himself in Harvey's guest chair and watched their interactions through the glass window of some conference room, it was clear both men were agitated. A few minutes later, Harvey came striding back to his desk.

"Mike, I'm slammed today, you're going to need to entertain yourself a bit," he said, his voice clipped.

"Can I help?" Mike said eagerly.

"No," Harvey said shortly, "Where's Donna?" It was clear the question wasn't really posed to him though, because Harvey was already yanking open cabinet drawers and pulling out stacks of folders.

"I can read things really fast - " Mike tried.

"Richard," Harvey stood up and waved at one of his coworkers. "Have you met Mike? He's a real ace with this law stuff and he's not bad with sports trivia either. Let him in on the Schumacher case?"

Mike stared, mouth agape. What was going on? Why couldn't he help? Why was Harvey suddenly pawning him off like he was Hot Potato?

But there was no time to say _any_ of this, because Harvey was already out the door. And all Mike could do was stare at the void he had left behind, hurt at the curt dismissal. Now what was he supposed to do?

The man who Harvey had called out to rose from his desk and came over to him. "Hey there," he said, with a disarming smile, "I'm Richard Jensen. Are you Harvey's mentee?"

"Um," Mike gulped back a wave of stupid emotion, "Yes. Mike Ross."

"Nice to meet you, Mike."

"Nice to meet you too," he said, knowing he didn't sound enough like he meant it. His emotions were still reeling from Harvey's abrupt departure, and he couldn't seem to shut up the part of his brain that was saying, _see! He can't be bothered with you in his life._

"You a football fan, Mike?"

He had tried so hard yesterday to make Harvey like him, to value him, and he had thought it was working...

"Um yeah, a bit," he managed to say.

"In the final AFL game ever played, what team did the Chiefs beat in 1970?"

What was this, a pop quiz? Mike tried to drag his thoughts into focus. "Oakland Raiders."

"Who was the first person in the NFL to rush for over a thousand yards in a season?"

"Beattie Feathers, Chicago Bears," Mike said, "That the best you've got?" But he smiled as he said it, to hopefully not give offense to the only friendly face he saw around.

"Just wanted to see if you were as good as advertised," Richard said with a grin, "And damn, you're good. As it so happens, I'm working a case right now where I could use a sports expert. You game?"

His interest was piqued a bit at the mention of a case. And well...why the hell not? Harvey had clearly abandoned him.

"Sure," he said, "I'm down."

:::

"We've been trying to convince a witness to testify for us in a money laundering case," Richard explained, "He doesn't trust lawyers. I think he's had some bad dealings with them, patents and all that stuff."

"Can't you just subpoena him?"

"I could, but I'd rather not. It's always dangerous to bring in a subpoenaed witness because you never know what they'll say on the stand."

Intrigued, Mike said, "So what do you need me to do?"

"He runs a fantasy football site, Premiere Fantasy Sports," Richard's teeth gleamed pearly white, "And you're going to impress the shit out of him."

"I am?"

"Those two questions I asked you, Tom asked me one the first time I met him, the other the second. Each time I couldn't come up with an answer, and he came up with an excuse to stonewall me."

Just for not knowing football trivia? Mike had read of some truly crazy excuses for witnesses refusing to testify before, but this one really topped the list.

Richard seemed to catch his train of thought. "I agree, he is a bit ridiculous. His business is worth a hundred _million_, and he uses a frat brother as his attorney. Just think of it this way: he doesn't _get_ lawyers, so we need to give him someone who he relates to."

The plan was beginning to click in Mike's mind. "And that's where I come in."

"You think you can handle it?"

"No problem." Actually it was kinda cool; he could pretend he was going undercover on a mission for the DA.

"You're a damn good partner, Mike. I'm counting on you," Richard said, and even though he had a strong suspicion he was being fed the carrot, Mike couldn't help but puff up a bit at those words. Harvey hadn't said that, not once, even after they had spent the entire day poring over cases together.

And so that was how he found himself in a locker room, getting ready to play a game of tennis while also desperately hoping that he'd get this mission done before it got to the point where he'd actually need to _play_ tennis.

Richard had pointed out Tom Keller to him earlier, and so Mike took up position at the locker opposite Tom's (he'd snuck a peek at the assignment sheet) and waited. It didn't take long; minutes later, Keller entered, easily recognizable by his shockingly blond hair and light hazel eyes. Judging purely from appearance alone, Mike would have guessed him to be not much older than twenty. That was good, because for this plan to work, Mike was going to need to pretend there wasn't an age gap.

"Hey, uh," he said, as nonchalantly as he could manage, "I know you must hear this all the time, but I'm totally addicted to your website."

For a moment it seemed Keller would ignore him, but after a beat, Keller shrugged on a shirt and said, "All right, who placed sixth in passing yards last year?"

Too easy. "Drew Bledsoe, 3633. How many sacks did Michael McCrary have?"

"15."

"Nut-uh, 14 and a half."

"Yeah I know, I rounded up."

"Your league doesn't, or I would've come in better than 20th."

Out of the corner of his eye, he was watching Keller carefully at this point, and so he saw the exact moment when Keller's face lit up with recognition. "You're rossaratus, right?"

"Yeah. Mike Ross."

"Tom Keller. Nice to meet you."

They shook hands.

"Congratulations, man, you got a nice team there. If Fred Taylor hadn't let you down, you would've been Top 10 for sure."

"Yeah well, that's what happens when you get high before the draft, right," Mike laughed.

Keller looked at him askance. "You get high?"

Alarm bells rang in his head as Harvey's warning suddenly flashed across his mind - _you'll promise to throw away all your pot and never touch it again_.

"I - uh - " he fumbled.

Too long.

"It's okay, man," Keller said, "No worries." He closed the locker, and started to turn away. With panic, Mike realized _that_ had been his window of opportunity, and he was now watching it slip away.

_Harvey isn't relenting. He doesn't want the kid._

In that heartbeat he decided, _screw it, screw Harvey and his rules, he didn't even mean it, he didn't give me a second's thought the moment his life got busy, this will show him I don't give a fuck too - _and he blurted out, "It's 4:20."

The language of one stoner to another.

Keller turned back around, his hazel eyes flickering up to the clock that clearly read 2:55. "It's 4:20," he said, with a smile, "Follow me."

The rest of the afternoon was one giant blur. Some indiscriminate amount of time later, Mike found himself back outside on the tennis courts, with a racket in his hand that he had no idea how he had gotten, and with the hazy notion that it must have been _really_ funny. He was somewhat sure a fedora and a few acorns had been involved. Heh. Fedoras.

They were wandering the courts and watching the neon yellow tennis balls fly around when Richard noticed him and jogged over. "Mike!"

Mike zeroed in immediately on the fact that the lawyer had a bag of Doritos in his left hand.

"You with him?" Keller said. "Mr. Jensen, right?"

"Mike's my man," Richard said, nudging him in the side with his Doritos-hand.

Through a really thick tortilla chip fog in his mind, he remembered the mission. "Yeah, Richard's cool," he told Keller, with every bit of conviction he could muster.

Keller appraised Richard. "Then I'll be in touch," he said, and then laughed, "Later. Trust me, you don't want my testimony now. See you around, Mike." He sauntered away, racket slung casually over his shoulder.

"You did it, Mike!" Richard slapped him on the back, "I knew you'd pull through. That conversation right there, I think that's the most words he's ever spoken to me that didn't involve any goddamn football trivia."

"Toldja," Mike said, "Hey, are those chips?"

"Yeah, do you want - " there was a pause, as Richard suddenly peered closely into his eyes and cursed. "Oh no. Don't tell me you're...oh _shit. _Harvey's going to fucking kill me."

He thought, _Richard sounds worried, maybe I should be worried too._

Then he thought, _I wonder if I could hit a tennis ball over that far wall if I swung the racket like a golf club._

And then he thought, _but I'm pretty bad at golf._

"_Mike_," Richard snapped his fingers in front of his face, "Let's get you back to the office...and...maybe some Visine or something for your eyes. Do me a favor, and Don't. Talk. To. Anyone."

He turned and started for the car. Mike went with him, because he still had the chips.

:::

Thirty minutes later, Mike and Richard were camped out in one of the conference rooms tucked away in the back of the office, waiting for Mike to come down from his high.

"Thank goodness Harvey has his hands full with the judge," Richard muttered to himself, and then cursed and said, "Speak of the devil."

Harvey was rapping on the glass door.

"If you build it, they will come," Mike told Richard solemnly.

Richard seemed to appreciate neither the irony nor the quote. "Follow my cue, and try not to say anything, okay?"

He nodded in agreement, and then a few more times for good measure.

"I'm dead," Richard sighed, as stood up from his seat. There was a moment when he seemed to pull his lawyer mask on, and then: "Harvey!" he greeted warmly, pulling open the door and leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed in a relaxed fashion. "How are things with Judge Pearl?"

"You know that feeling when you've been irrationally screwed over in open court because of an affair that you _didn't_ have with the judge's wife? Yeah. That kind of day. Mike," Harvey snapped his fingers, "Donna will kill me if I don't feed you something."

"Oh don't worry about that; we've already eaten," Richard said, still casually blocking Harvey's access inside the room.

Mike suppressed a giggle at the tactic. Like _that_ would work with Harvey.

Sure enough, he could hear the sudden suspicion in Harvey's voice. "What's going on here?"

"Nothing, nothing. Mike's been helping me review some cases."

Mike hastily dropped his head over the stack of papers in front of him and pretended to be reading. There were so many lines of text, just lines and lines of text swirling together into a giant swirl of multi-color highlighter...whoa. He tilted his head to one side, fascinated.

"Uh, Mike, I just remembered, I left some briefs down in the car. If you wouldn't mind grabbing them..." Richard said, his voice a bit strained.

Case files. Yes, case files!

"On it!" he jumped up and ducked his head as he tried to squeeze past the two men at the door.

Only to be blocked by Harvey.

As he fumbled to regain his footing, Mike tried his best to look anywhere but at Harvey, a task made almost impossible by the other's unfairly large and rapidly intimidating presence at the door.

"Look at me," Harvey demanded.

"Harvey," Richard began.

"Shut up," Harvey snapped, "Mike, look at me."

Okay, right, look at him. Mike could do that. It was just looking, after all. With careful effort, he dragged his gaze up, up from the oak floors, past the curve of Harvey's dress shoes, the hem of his dark charcoal pants, the crisp lines of his white dress shirt, the sharp angle of Harvey's clean-shaven jaw, and finally -

He looked directly into the gaze of the man who had taken him to a Yankees game and bought him an overpriced cap, who had comforted him in the dark of night and done him the courtesy of pretending it had never happened, and who had carved out a space in his home for him...and found that it was the prosecutor staring back at him. Harvey's eyes were cool and foreboding as they swept over him, and Mike's chest began yammering with anxiety because the idea that had seemed so good at the time, clearly didn't seem quite so good now.

He told himself that he was prepared for the anger. He could handle it; hell, he was pretty ticked off himself at how the morning had gone. Fight fire with fire? Yeah, he could handle that.

He told himself he was prepared for indifference. In fact,this might be exactly the sort of screw up Harvey had been hoping for in order to dump him off. Harvey might even be grateful.

But what he wasn't expecting, what he was entirely unprepared for, was disappointment.

And so when it came, it was like a punch to the gut.

Mike's stomach flipped several times over as he struggled to hold eye contact, because the look that Harvey was giving him cut right through him like steel_, _and Mike realized, a bit too late, that maybe Harvey had meant every word that he had said, had been genuine all along.

"You're high," Harvey said, flatly.

It wasn't a question.

Mike jerked his head in a nod, his innards too twisted up for words.

Richard said, "Harvey, he helped convince Tom Keller to - "

Harvey spun on his heel and strode away.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Cruel to leave it here, I know! But this one was getting _loooong_, and since Harvey's about to punch a wall, I thought it was about time to switch POVs with a new chapter. I hope to have it out soon. As always, I'd love to hear what you think. Comments feed the muse?


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